


Penance for the Universe

by theprydonian_archivist



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Episode: s03e13 Last of the Time Lords, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-01
Updated: 2008-03-01
Packaged: 2018-07-15 01:14:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7199480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theprydonian_archivist/pseuds/theprydonian_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post LoTTL <i>'You started thinking aloud ten minutes ago and haven’t stopped.'</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Penance for the Universe

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Prydonian](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Prydonian). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [The Prydonian collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/theprydonian/profile).

There’s a hard truth to be faced.

He’s not coming back. _(But he is, isn’t he?)_

And it shouldn’t be this hard to face it, not after all those times he tried to kill you and your friends. _(But he’s your friend too, isn’t he?)_ Not after all those times he took over civilisations, the way he still stands over civilisations, somewhere in his time-line, in the future, the past, the present. You don’t know where you are anymore. 

Somewhere in the vortex.

You don’t really care _where._

Nostalgia is something sickening. Of course it’s sweet too, sitting next to a friend by the ocean and talking about the past, the present, what you two are going to do next.

You did that too little with Rose, and too much with Martha. 

_(Red wine, vodka and a beach, Martha stretched out on her towel, lying on the sand with a small smile on her face as you lie next to her, talking about planets spiralling around black holes and silver, metal men that her cousin died trying to support. Her skin is beautiful, liquid chocolate in her bikini against a crazily coloured towel; nothing like your choice attire from long ago. Martha hit the human ‘drunk’ standard a long time ago. You try not to think about how much you and Romana would do that back when she allowed herself to relax for ten seconds.)_

With Rose, you wiped the slate clean.

Or… tried to.

After Gallifrey, your hearts shattered, just a little. 

You’re here now, on some planet, stumbling through the doors of some pub, somewhere _(anywhere)_ , because you don’t want to be in the TARDIS alone any longer. You sit down at a booth, and ignore the roboform as she approaches you to take your order. You can drink water for a while, as your blue box sits on the corner of the street outside.

A girl sits down in front of you, and you start to talk as she smiles and nods, pushing you onward, encouraging you.

You’re reminded of the Freudian way of therapy _(the therapeutic community, you think with a shudder)_ but you don’t want her to go away because you’ve already started, and she already knows you come from Gallifrey, that you blew it up. She knows about Rose and Martha, about time-lines and the small titbits of information about the Master that you allowed yourself to verbalise. You don’t know her name.

You keep going.

You tell her that you know why your hearts broke. It’s because you’re the one that destroyed your home planet, the one that has to live with that guilt, the memories of the pure heat as both suns were sent into a rapid orbit, spinning for the first time since their creation around the orbiting planet, head on into a collision.

You, the catalyst, standing on high and watching your own planet burn before dematerialising.

You forget about the pain, about the burns sustained and the sight of your charred, immobile legs on the floor as you bent, pained, in the throes of regeneration. You forget about it, and you don’t mention it to her, because she already looks like she’s going to vomit, looking at a genocidal killer as she is. _(She doesn’t know the half of it.)_

After Gallifrey you tried to forget, because you had to move on and live.

But the universe fed you penance, memories forcing you to pay the tithes you owe. Daleks, Sarah Jane, K-9, Cybermen… the Master.

You wonder who will be next. Davros? Maybe they’re all gone now, and the universe will begin to forgive.

You doubt it, but it’s worth hoping for. _(Besides, the Master isn’t really gone, is he?)_

You jump up and start, thinking of the TARDIS on the corner, the door pushed open slightly because you stumbled out without thinking, unaware and stupidly careless. And she knows all this now, because you started thinking aloud ten minutes ago and haven’t stopped.

But she just smiles soothingly and rubs your back as she guides you back down to the chair, beside you. 

There’s a bottle of vodka before you. She brought it with her when she sat down and she hasn’t touched it since. _You_ touch it though, pouring a shot and downing it without even thinking about the burning sensation in your throat. Real physical burns hurt a lot more, even more than spilling hot wax over yourself, over the primed sensors in your hands, your stomach, your legs. 

Another shot, and another.

You tell her this. All of it. You stopped determining the line between thoughts and speech a while ago, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

You’ve downed half the bottle by the time you start talking about the final outing you had in your fourth body, and then you begin to believe yourself when you say that the metal snapping feeling around your wrists is imaginary.

It’s not.

You also say that the man sitting in front of you saying that he, too, remembers that outing, is imaginary _(he can’t be real, not with that smirk, the high raised eyebrows and dark suit. That man died, and even if he did come back – he did, didn’t he, you told yourself so! – he would have changed his face after regenerating)_. You say that he is imaginary. 

But he isn’t. 

You’re not utterly surprised when you find yourself chained to a wall, the girl you’d been talking to for such a long time smiling as she leans against an opposing wall, her chestnut brown hair curling around her shoulders.

He loves girls with curled hair. 

When he comes back in and calls her name, _(Susan, the bastard)_ , you almost smile.

The universe has made its play, and your penance isn’t over yet.


End file.
